Carnivorous Eden
Screwtipede
Hearts without Quarrel
I picture my days most fruitfully spent with a woman acquired from some foreign outing in a land of high culture; I lock with her eyes from a Venetian boat as she smiles from the concrete spires of a busied riverside walkway, lowering her camera upon realizing the advent of our initial chemistry. She is wise beyond her years, dainty in composure but brute in wit; she speaks of art both Apollonian and outlandish, outdoor cafés on overcast days and books of which I’ve heard but only now wish to own. Together we embark on exotic travels without the hindrance of a second thought, forever adding to our experiences and embellishing the tale of our growing affection.
A vacation home planted in white sands waits for us to grace it with our auras, probed by temperate gusts that spill through open glass doors and visit the modern sculptures from room to room. After a day of tourist indulgence, my woman enters through the foyer, lays her keys on the table and quickly thereafter transforms into a goddess evening-gowned… a form that accepts me graciously in front of a hearth’s humble blessing, and accompanies me on a patient walk upstairs into the care of satin sheets. After a night of instincts aflame – arguably the product of a moon-bridled lunacy shared between beasts no longer repressed – the next day eases in with the sounds of the bay soothing the cinder of forgivable sins, an ambience signified by the sigh of palm-tree ferns being fondled by the ocean breeze.
Sated is the bed where the cool sheets contrast the warm body of my lover, our legs overlapping as we sleep in dream-tickled serenity. Clutching our pillows, faces smiling obliviously to the sun as it creeps in through the gaping bay windows, we are close though we face opposite walls to allow space for comfort… a symbolism of our bold independence that remains wild even as our relationship tightens. Our love proceeds with tantric patience, a cunning passion which brandishes the blade that is our life in each other’s hands… an alliance destined for the spectrum of eternity.
Our days are filled with pigeons, fountains, buildings in the blinding sun and waters sparkling from beyond the wharf… our nights are filled with velvet pillows, champagne corks, and the curvature of glassware shimmering in light subdued. The evenings smell of wine and candle fire, the mornings smell of breakfasts sunning on the balcony. The waiting arms of Athena could not gift me a better ally in eroticism, and desire could not devote its sweat to building a better structure than that of our union. Gracious is the luck that entwined our paths, and our paths will continue to enfold its blessings. Hand in hand we fulfill a dual destiny; money never an object, travel always an option… the perfect place, the perfect girl, the perfect love.
“Hearts without Quarrel” by Brandon Gene Petit
Taken from Ab Antiquo, Ab Aeterno
© Brandon Gene Petit
La Dame Verte
Her smile a notch above a frown,
The subtle way she drags her gown;
Drifting to the garden tub,
Slipping off her black lace gloves.
Evening of unwinding wrath,
Absinthe and a bubble bath;
Ignorant to clock-hands turning,
Sleeps content with candles burning.
Velvet curtains brushed aside;
Sleeping, soaking, Devil’s pride;
I find her in a sultry moat,
Asleep where lotus candles float.
…Where that trail of petals led,
In the room where dress was shed;
I thought I heard her hum a hymn,
Escaping through subconscious whim.
Her eyelids twitch above her smile,
Her hair descending to the tile;
For her thoughts I’d offer pence,
Red lips hushed in confidence.
Her marinated body froths,
In body oil and castile broth;
Half asleep, beneath her breath,
She tells me romance isn’t dead.
Taken from Dreams in the Womb
© Brandon Gene Petit
Author’s Note: This was inspired by a witchy woman I know, who told me on a late night phone conversation that she once took a bubble bath while drinking absinthe and eating M & M’s. (Needless to say, I took out the part about the M & M’s.)
To a Girl with Green Eyes
Watchful beacons fierce and free
The kind so green as verdant sea
Of mint and clover sentiently…
Wrapped around your pupil be
Etchings on a radial gem
Echo to my deepest whim
Crystal carvings never dim
Further from thy pupil stem
Glistening gaze of dampened jewel
Strings along the avid fool
Not so kind, but not so cruel
Instead a different kind of school
Luscious is the teary glaze
That gifts me just beyond the maze
To gently whisper sensual praise
And rival my most treasured days
Subtle flits of dashing green
Shifty, charismatic sheen
Piercing through prosaic scene
Coaxing me to intervene
Sights aligned with passion’s will
Sting me with thy lover’s quill
A woman, lest my heart be still
As she moves in for the kill
Iris twin; an emerald pair
Tell of field and forest fair
Gradient of goddess stare
I wonder what thoughts may be there
© Brandon Gene Petit
She Awaits
Eyes aflame with sapphire grain, my sultry mistress ebon-cloaked
Witch’s queen and lover’s vice, her hair reminds of raven’s coat
Her crimson lips boast thicker spells, my incense-perfumed spirit tease
In wait for me in amber light, midst pyromantic luxuries
Dressed in shadow-melding cloth, her form sylphlike yet hard to draw
Shifty in the flickering light, her flux offending natural law
Her skin is neither pale nor dark; polite to touch as dewy fruit
But never cross her path with spite; beware, my friend, her soul is brute
Her beauty shines when sadness looms, her tragedy devours as flame
Restlessness consumes her bed, a full moon I am glad to blame
She tends to an erotic lair, a curiosa wonderland
Lit by slanted window shades and kissed by oriental fans
Flightless fairy, clad in black, her voice divinely resonates
Requesting me to drop my guard and lend my heart out to the fates
She slithers through the velvet sheets, a French composer in the air,
Lending out a finger curled, commanding with a demon stare
Labored with nigrescent opals heavy on her neck and wrists,
She opens up her curtained arms to soon begin this sacred tryst
Breath of cloves with hint of mint, a fragrance that soon greets my face
Her lips the color of her heart, her hair the scent of pillow lace
Time is not a rigid service, meaningless within her vault
Hours pass, so fleeting, as her tears and sweat reward me salt
Torch-flames tremble to the passion; vaulted roof, two lovers under
Unity of souls ensues, entwining to the song of thunder
Then she shows me opiate visions clad with necromantic zeal
I swallow them with wormwood wine; drunk, I question what is real
Her fingertips caress my cheek; strokes me with her dainty claws
She stimulates my weaknesses and enters through my mortal flaws
Her pulse resounds within my chest; my mantis lover takes control
I’m weakened to my very knees, unstable like a newborn foal
She leads me down a stairwell where the edge of darkness titillates
I follow her to drunk abysses, faithfully, where she awaits
© Brandon Gene Petit
All Life is Alien
While I can’t take credit for this amazing footage, I was so blown away by this video of an unknown organism in the deep that I had to repost it.
